Chapter 1: The Druid and the Brigand

The storm tore through the night, its winds howling like a beast and rain slashing the ruins of the coliseum as if intent on washing the world away. Sheets of rain lashed the ruins, thunder roaring like a decree from an angry god. Iredoll rode into the structure’s gaping entrance, his body slumped in the saddle, his robes drenched and clinging to his frail frame.

 

The horse slowed as they entered the shelter of the crumbling stone walls. Iredoll’s breath came in short, labored gasps, the arrow lodged deep in his shoulder sending waves of pain through his body. He gritted his teeth and gripped the saddle for support, but his strength was ebbing. The moment his mount stopped, he slid from the saddle and hit the mud with a dull thud.

 

The impact jolted the arrow shaft, driving its jagged tip through flesh and muscle, spreading fresh waves of agony through his shoulder. He groaned in agony, clutching his shoulder. The rain washed over him, the icy water mingling with the blood oozing from his wound. Through the haze of pain, he whispered, 'Gaia... grant me strength... just one more day to finish this task.’

 

His horse lowered its head, nuzzling his cheek. Iredoll’s trembling hand reached up, stroking the creature’s wet snout. “There, there, big fellow,” he murmured weakly. “We’ve made it this far...”

 

But his vision blurred, and the world began to darken. The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was the comforting presence of his loyal steed.

 

From the shadows of the coliseum, a pair of sharp eyes watched.

 

Klaven crouched low behind a broken pillar, his cloak pulled tight against the rain. He had followed the old man for hours, driven by the promise of a fat purse or, if luck favored him, some magical relic hidden in the druid’s robes. The rest of the gang had given up the chase long ago, but Klaven was no quitter. He saw opportunities where others saw obstacles.

 

The old man lay motionless in the mud, his horse standing guard. Klaven’s lips curled into a greedy smirk. Easy pickings, he thought, his hand already gripping the hilt of his long knife."

 

He moved carefully, creeping from shadow to shadow, avoiding the horse’s watchful eyes. The storm masked the sound of his steps, his boots squelching in the mud as he closed the distance. When he was within arm’s reach, he crouched beside the druid, eyeing the purse tied to the man’s belt.

 

“I’ll have that, old man,” Klaven whispered, reaching for the prize.

 

But the horse moved faster. Its head shot up, ears flattening against its skull. Klaven barely had time to glance up before a powerful kick struck him square in the temple. His knife flew from his hand as the world spun, and he crumpled into the mud, unconscious.

 

Iredoll stirred at the sound of the brigand’s fall. His eyes fluttered open, and he winced, his hand instinctively going to his shoulder. The pain was sharper now, his body weaker. He turned his head and saw the man lying face-down in the mud, a thin stream of blood trickling from his temple.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Well done, old friend,” he murmured, patting his horse’s flank.

 

With great effort, Iredoll sat up and pulled a small pouch from his robes. His trembling fingers worked quickly, mixing dried herbs with mud. Weak as he was, he raised his hand and traced glowing runes into the air. The symbols shimmered faintly before his fingers dimmed, the energy spent. Leaning over the unconscious brigand, he pressed the mixture to the man’s forehead.

 

The mud sizzled, and a deep red rune burned itself into the brigand’s skin—a mark of binding. Iredoll leaned back, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re bound now, boy. Gaia’s will holds you.”

 

The brigand awoke to the crackling of fire and the faint smell of roasted meat. He groaned, sitting up slowly, his head pounding from the horse’s blow. His hands instinctively went to his forehead, where a faint burning sensation lingered. His fingers brushed against something smooth and hot—the mark.

 

“What the hell is this?” he growled, glaring at the old man seated across from him.

 

Iredoll didn’t look up. “You’re awake. Good.”

 

“What did you do to me?” Klaven demanded, his voice rising as it began to tremble. “What is this thing on my forehead?”

 

“You’re soulbound,” Iredoll said calmly, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “A mark of Gaia. It keeps you close.”

 

Klaven froze, his fingers tracing the mark again. Soulbound. That word rang in his mind, sharp and mocking. Memories came unbidden—his mother’s tearful goodbye, the village council’s cold decree, and the woodsman’s laughter as he dragged a young Klaven away in chains. Rage surged through him, mingling with something darker: despair.

“You mean it makes me your slave,” he said through gritted teeth, clinching his fists.

 

The druid’s gaze finally lifted, his expression unreadable. “If that’s how you choose to see it.”

 

Rage boiled in Klaven’s chest. He surged to his feet, fists clenched. “You had no right—”

 

The mark on his forehead flared suddenly, and he gasped as a searing pain shot through him. The air around him shimmered faintly, and a deep, rumbling voice echoed in the coliseum, low and wordless—a warning from Gaia herself.

Klaven staggered back, clutching his head. “What the hell was that?”

 

“Gaia’s warning,” Iredoll said, his voice steady. “She does not take kindly to disobedience.”

 

Klaven clenched his fists, his anger surging. “You’re just like the others,” he spat. “Taking what you want, forcing me into servitude. Do you think I’ve never been someone’s dog before?”

 

Iredoll raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

Klaven laughed bitterly. “The village council sold me when I was a child. To a woodsman. A bastard who beat me every day, made me steal food for his brats while I starved. And now here I am again, tied to another master.”

 

Iredoll’s gaze softened, but his voice was firm. “What they did to you was wrong. Cruel. But do not confuse their actions with mine.”

 

“It’s the same damn thing!” Klaven shouted.

 

“No,” Iredoll said, his tone sharp. “They bound you out of greed. I bound you to save your life—and mine.”

 

Klaven’s jaw tightened. “You’re no savior, old man.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Iredoll admitted. “But you’re alive. And that’s more than can be said for the choices you’ve made.”

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Klaven sneered.

 

“Oh, but I do,” Iredoll replied, his voice calm but firm. “The moment Gaia’s will touched you, fragments of your story touched me. Not all of it—but enough to know the weight you carry. Enough to know you hide your pain behind anger.”

 

Klaven stiffened, his fists curling as if to shield himself from the words. Fragments of my story? What does that even mean? But deep down, he felt a pang of unease. Could the old man really see the memories that still haunted him? Could he see the boy starving in chains, the cruel laughter of the woodsman, the hollow ache of losing everything? He shook the thought away, hardening his glare. It didn’t matter. Understanding didn’t erase the years of pain.

 

“You had no choice as a boy,” Iredoll continued, leaning forward, his eyes piercing. “But you have one now. The mark doesn’t control your heart or your mind. What you do from here—that is up to you.”

 

Klaven kicked at the dirt, his jaw clenched. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s lost everything.”

 

Iredoll’s expression darkened, his gaze distant, as though he were staring at something far beyond the flickering firelight. “I have lost more than you can imagine, boy. Entire villages burned under my hand. Their screams... they haunt me still—children crying out for mothers who would never answer.” He paused, and for the briefest moment, his voice faltered. “And do you know who I blame for it?”

 

Klaven glanced at him warily. “Who?”

 

“Only myself,” Iredoll said softly. “Because I chose to carry out Gaia’s anger. No god, no man, no circumstance forced my hand. And I alone bear the weight of those choices.”

 

Klaven froze, his sharp retort caught in his throat. He searched Iredoll’s face for even the faintest flicker of doubt, of self-pity, but there was none. The druid’s eyes were steady, his voice unwavering. He wasn’t looking for absolution—he was simply stating a fact.

 

The fire popped, sending a brief spray of sparks into the night air. Klaven turned his gaze to the flames, the crackling wood echoing in the heavy silence between them. Could I bear such a weight? The thought gnawed at him, and for a moment, something fragile stirred within. But he refused to let it show. Instead, he clenched his fists, letting the familiar anger rise like a shield. It was easier than facing what lay beneath.

 

The silence lingered, oppressive and sharp. Finally, Klaven muttered, “Redemption’s a luxury I can’t afford.”

 

“Redemption is a choice,” Iredoll replied, his voice low but firm. “And it is never too late to make it.”

 

Klaven felt a knot of frustration tightening in his throat. He wanted to laugh, to scoff at the old man’s certainty, but the words clung to him like a faint echo, refusing to fade. He said nothing, though, and let the fire’s warmth fill the space where his thoughts dared not go.

 

The fire had burned low, and the rain outside had quieted to a faint drizzle. The ruined coliseum, once an arena for bloodshed and spectacle, now lay still, its echoes lost in the passing storm. Klaven sat near the fire, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes darting between the sleeping druid and the faint, lingering heat radiating from the mark on his forehead. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel its presence, as though it pulsed with its own heartbeat, a constant reminder of the chains Gaia had placed upon him.

 

Bound. Again.

 

He clenched his fists, the rage still simmering in his chest. But his thoughts wandered to his earlier exchange with the old man. Choice. The druid had spoken as though it were a simple thing. As if a life carved out of desperation could be molded into something more by sheer will alone.

 

“Easy for you to say,” Klaven muttered under his breath, the bitterness rising again. “You’ve had your power handed to you.”

 

The glimmer in the mud caught Klaven’s eye, faint but persistent, just beyond the firelight. He squinted, his breath catching. What was it? A coin? A piece of jewelry? Gold? His greed stirred to life, and he stood slowly, the dull ache in his head forgotten.

 

The rain had thinned, and the ruined coliseum was quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the faint drip of water from the broken stone walls. His gaze stayed fixed on the gleaming object, his curiosity growing with each step he took toward it.

 

But then the mark on his forehead stirred.

 

At first, it was just a faint warmth, as if the rain had stopped cooling his skin. But as he moved farther from the fire, the warmth grew into heat, then into an aching pressure. It spread through his chest, pulling tight as if unseen chains had looped around his ribs and were dragging him backward.

 

Klaven growled under his breath, shaking his head as he pressed forward. The glimmer in the mud seemed brighter now, teasing him, promising him something. Riches? Power? Freedom? He clenched his teeth and pushed on, ignoring the burning mark and the suffocating pull.

 

But the mark flared hotter, and his breath hitched. Pain lanced through his skull, and his knees buckled as the resistance grew. It wasn’t just a tug now—it was a force, invisible but unrelenting, as though Gaia herself were trying to drag him back to the druid’s side. He gasped, clawing at his throat, his vision swimming.

 

“No... not yet...” he rasped, collapsing onto his hands and knees. His fingers dug into the mud, driven by sheer desperation. The glimmer was so close now. His hands trembled as he reached forward, scraping away the muck until his fingers brushed against something cold and solid. He gripped it tightly, his heart pounding as he wrenched it free from the earth.

 

It was a sword.

 

Even in the faint firelight, its beauty was undeniable. The hilt was gilded, intricate designs carved into the golden metal, and at its center was a blood-red jewel that seemed to pulse faintly, almost in time with his racing heartbeat. The blade, though caked in dirt, shone with an otherworldly gleam, untouched by age or the elements.

 

Klaven stared at it, his breath shallow, his anger and greed momentarily forgotten. The jewel drew his gaze, and he saw his reflection warped within it. But as he stared, the image shifted.

 

He saw himself standing tall, clad in fine armor, a crown resting on his brow. Behind him stretched a hall of banners bearing his name. The faces of those who had wronged him—his tormentors, his betrayers—knelt before him, their heads bowed in submission.

 

A king. A ruler. Untouchable.

 

The vision flickered, and Klaven blinked, his heart pounding. “What... is this?”

 

A sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

“Bring it here.”

 

Klaven startled, the sword trembling in his hands. The druid’s voice was calm, but there was a command in it that sent a shiver through him. For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of the sword heavy and strange in his grip.

 

“Now, boy,” Iredoll said again, his tone sharper. “Or would you rather see what Gaia does when you disobey her again?”

The mark on his forehead flared, a warning pain prickling behind his eyes. Klaven cursed under his breath and rose unsteadily to his feet. The sword felt heavier with every step he took back toward the fire, but the pressure on his chest eased, and the mark’s burning began to subside. He held the weapon out to Iredoll, frustration glairing in his eyes.

 

“Well?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience. “What is it?”

 

Iredoll’s weathered hands closed around the hilt. He turned the blade slowly, the firelight catching on its edge. His expression darkened as his gaze settled on the jewel. “It’s a lying sword. “This sword has claimed the lives of countless dreamers. Will it claim yours, too?”

 

Klaven frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It shows you what you want to see,” the druid said, tapping the jewel with a bony finger. “Visions of grandeur, of power, of things you desire most. But it’s a trick—a deception. A tool meant to lead its wielder astray.”

Klaven stiffened, his jaw tightening. “You’re saying it’s worthless?”

 

Iredoll’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I’m saying it’s dangerous. Many have wielded such swords, chasing dreams they believed were real. Most met their ends long before they realized the truth.”

 

Klaven looked back at the sword, the jewel gleaming like a drop of blood. For a moment, he felt the pull again—the promise of what it could offer. But now, there was doubt. A seed of suspicion planted by the druid’s words.

 

“Keep it,” Iredoll said suddenly, handing the sword back to him. “It’s yours now. Perhaps it will teach you something.”

Klaven hesitated before taking it, the blade’s weight feeling heavier than before. He slid it into his belt, the jewel glinting faintly at his side.

 

As the fire crackled softly, the sword’s jewel glinted like a promise—or a warning. Klaven clenched his fists, his thoughts tangling with anger, ambition, and something more profound. Could redemption ever be his? Or, like the sword, was he doomed to be a beautiful lie?

 

 

The storm had passed, but the echoes of it lingered.